"I looked at it once!" These are the words that decide to shoot themselves out his mouth first, very likely because his mouth and his head hate him. It's likely the last thing he needed to point out. Like a point of order or defense, and it's all effort to stop up his mouth and not point out he knows that because he's been not-looking-at-it this whole time and that one time was just finally not being able to not do it.
Not entirely because of this reason, but because of it, too. Especially now. When he hadn't thought of it first, but now Yurio was pointing it out. Like it would be one slip and he'd never stop. The flare of heat, that's embarrassment and defense, heating the inside of his chest as much as the outside of his skin, leaving him trapped within and between both as Yurio rubs at his face and keeps talking.
About the number of things Yuri still hardly has any idea how to put into words. The things that happened, why they happened. The resignation settling into Yurio's face and posture make him almost look tired in the way Yuri's own muscles feel, even after the long time spent in the hot water. Even if it's been ... a while. Not long enough. Not long enough by far, though, either. Only long enough to not be today, or yesterday, or a few days ago.
There wasn't even a month to be had between when they had been to where they were going.
It's a strange feeling -- between watch Yurio, as he's talking about that, barely having a clue still what to really say to it, about it, about living it, about having a hundred of his own questions, that only sometimes even formed into actual words that could be said out loud and that of the door, existing right off their corner, the point of the whole thing, tingling at his shoulder, as though he has to look and go there now.
Because he does, doesn't he? For Yurio now, too? Yuri can at least find the decency to stand up, right? He can. He does. He's still not sure he wants to know. It's bad enough to fear something in his own head (he fears things in his own head all the time, hundreds, thousands, millions, real and not real, stupid and sensible), but to have someone else holding it ...
Yuri didn't know if that made it better or worse.
Real. It made it more real.
(And real meant he couldn't just tell himself he was being an idiot, which he usually was, or that his head had run away with itself, and any sense of reality, which it usually had, and that it would be fine if he could just breathe and stop his head from spinning and spinning, which it -- well -- results were always a mixed bag, but so was thinking he could control it, wasn't it?)
But he does get up, and his dry barefeet do shuffle in that direction. Toward the Door that seems larger, and his chest smaller, with each of those shuffling steps. He doesn't want to know. He's not sure he really likes this place at all already. He stops not far from. Maybe a foot. Wondering again, in a loop (he's always in loops), if he's blocking the door from someone again. If it works inside and out of some radius.
He's never seen people run into each other. He's never thought watched anyone else using it.
"You wouldn't have to buy me a ticket." Certain, if a touch dry and pressed out his mouth. Just. Just ... in case.
Before Yuri places his hand on the door handle. (He's stuck in the loop of that second, too. The reminder. The desperation. That torn feeling between where his heart wanted and needed to be: on the ice, with Victor. The cold feeling drilling into his lungs now that he might not have ever left it. He left the bar. He left Moscow. He was home. He had Victor. Why did he still feel that tearing just as keenly, then? Why wasn't it new, again, just this second?)
It opens easy as a whisper this time under his fingers. The bathroom on the other side. The air from the bathroom still a roll of warmth as though hot water was still running somewhere, and the cling of condensation beading on the edge of a mirror as the fog that had been all over it was slowly finding a way to finally dissipate. Yuri's heart giving a thunderously relieved beat.
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"I looked at it once!" These are the words that decide to shoot themselves out his mouth first, very likely because his mouth and his head hate him. It's likely the last thing he needed to point out. Like a point of order or defense, and it's all effort to stop up his mouth and not point out he knows that because he's been not-looking-at-it this whole time and that one time was just finally not being able to not do it.
Not entirely because of this reason, but because of it, too. Especially now. When he hadn't thought of it first, but now Yurio was pointing it out. Like it would be one slip and he'd never stop. The flare of heat, that's embarrassment and defense, heating the inside of his chest as much as the outside of his skin, leaving him trapped within and between both as Yurio rubs at his face and keeps talking.
About the number of things Yuri still hardly has any idea how to put into words. The things that happened, why they happened. The resignation settling into Yurio's face and posture make him almost look tired in the way Yuri's own muscles feel, even after the long time spent in the hot water. Even if it's been ... a while. Not long enough. Not long enough by far, though, either. Only long enough to not be today, or yesterday, or a few days ago.
There wasn't even a month to be had between when they had been to where they were going.
It's a strange feeling -- between watch Yurio, as he's talking about that, barely having a clue still what to really say to it, about it, about living it, about having a hundred of his own questions, that only sometimes even formed into actual words that could be said out loud and that of the door, existing right off their corner, the point of the whole thing, tingling at his shoulder, as though he has to look and go there now.
Because he does, doesn't he? For Yurio now, too? Yuri can at least find the decency to stand up, right? He can. He does. He's still not sure he wants to know. It's bad enough to fear something in his own head (he fears things in his own head all the time, hundreds, thousands, millions, real and not real, stupid and sensible), but to have someone else holding it ...
Yuri didn't know if that made it better or worse.
(And real meant he couldn't just tell himself he was being an idiot, which he usually was, or that his head had run away with itself, and any sense of reality, which it usually had, and that it would be fine if he could just breathe and stop his head from spinning and spinning, which it -- well -- results were always a mixed bag, but so was thinking he could control it, wasn't it?)
But he does get up, and his dry barefeet do shuffle in that direction. Toward the Door that seems larger, and his chest smaller, with each of those shuffling steps. He doesn't want to know. He's not sure he really likes this place at all already. He stops not far from. Maybe a foot. Wondering again, in a loop (he's always in loops), if he's blocking the door from someone again. If it works inside and out of some radius.
He's never seen people run into each other. He's never thought watched anyone else using it.
"You wouldn't have to buy me a ticket." Certain, if a touch dry and pressed out his mouth. Just. Just ... in case.
Before Yuri places his hand on the door handle. (He's stuck in the loop of that second, too. The reminder. The desperation. That torn feeling between where his heart wanted and needed to be: on the ice, with Victor. The cold feeling drilling into his lungs now that he might not have ever left it. He left the bar. He left Moscow. He was home. He had Victor. Why did he still feel that tearing just as keenly, then? Why wasn't it new, again, just this second?)
It opens easy as a whisper this time under his fingers. The bathroom on the other side. The air from the bathroom still a roll of warmth as though hot water was still running somewhere, and the cling of condensation beading on the edge of a mirror as the fog that had been all over it was slowly finding a way to finally dissipate. Yuri's heart giving a thunderously relieved beat.